The Chaos

South Americans have a knack for chaos, regardless of whether they are expressing triumph or dissent. In 2007 when I was in Chile, the universities were closed regularly for strikes, and the newspapers featured pictures of encapuchados, kids with those famous Palestinian bandannas over their faces throwing molotov cocktails at the attacking guanacos, police tanks that sprayed tear gas. At the time, I witnessed the riots from the safety of my apartment in an upper middle-class neighborhood.

Little did I suspect that, much like my beloved Terps, Chileans riot out of celebration, too. Today Chile won their first World Cup game since the 1962 match against Yugoslavia in Chile. Today's win was their first ever World Cup victory abroad.

Although most male-dominated offices in machista Chile were closed for the morning due to the post-game celebration, I had one female student to teach across town who didn't feel the need to cancel our lesson due to soccer. On my way home most buses, already loaded down with flag-waving fans, passed me by. When I finally caught one it was filled with teenagers dressed in Chilean flags, singing and chanting endlessly and jumping so hard the bus literally bounced down the street.

A few blocks south of the stop where I was to get off the bus made an impromptu turn because police had blocked the road. I got off there and headed towards my next bus stop, veering around the cheering, drunken, brawling masses until my eyes and nose started to sting a little. As I walked, the street got emptier, and my face started stinging more and more. A few remanining encapuchados were throwing rocks and vodka bottles at the police tanks, and I saw a white cloud burst out of the guanaco half a block away from me.

Plaza Italia, scene of the party and rioting

Police breaking up the crowds

I tried to avoid the chaos by taking the metro, but they had it barricaded shut. The intersection where I was headed was blocked off too, so it would be impossible to catch a bus. Covering my nose and mouth with the corner of my coat to avoid inhaling the tear gas, I jogged to the nearest avenue to catch any bus headed away from the scene. None were stopping. Finally I was able to flag down a cab, but once I was inside my eyes started watering, and the more I cried the more it burned. Three blocks down I was sobbing into my coat, sputtering in the only Spanish I could remember asking the cab driver how to make it stop. He wasn't able to offer me any useful advice.

After I got home I took a shower and rinsed my eyes for a few minutes, and the burning sensation started to lessen. Unfortunately, so did my excitement at being in Chile for such an important victory. I have had great experiences watching games abroad in Mexico, Chile, and Spain. I have hugged strangers after a game-winning goal and relished stories about soccer's ability to stop wars and bring together different cultures and ethnicities. Although I had heard horror stories about riots and hooligans, I never experienced first-hand the violent side of "the most beautiful game". My attitude changed from cheering the Chileans this morning to cursing them this afternoon. I think for the next match, I won't be leaving my house.

Spanish speakers, read the El Mercurio article